To Say the Truth
by dark-nexus17
Summary: It's an unusually sunny day for London, although it is in fact summer, (but in Britain that can mean anything from heat to hailstones), and DC Kent finds himself having a quiet cry in a secluded part of the car park behind the Met Office. Chandler/Kent. Sequel to 'the sound of distant thunder'.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** To Say the Truth

 **Pairings:** Kent/Chandler, Erica Kent/ Finlay Mansell, Ray Miles/Judy Miles, Meg Riley/Riley's husband

 **Warnings:** Spoilers for all seasons of Whitechapel. Canon-typical violence. Some swearing. Mansell's sense of humour. Angst (no more than in the show though, at least not at the moment). OCD related behaviours.

 **Summary:** It's an unusually sunny day for London, although it is in fact summer, (but in Britain that can mean anything from heat to hailstones), and DC Kent finds himself having a quiet cry in a secluded part of the car park behind the Met Office.

 **This is a sequel/companion piece to 'The sound of distant thunder', though you don't need to have read that to read this.**

 **I have no idea how long this will turn out to be, or really where it's going. I'm afraid I've never done a multi-chapter before without writing it all at once, so I'm not sure how frequent updates will be, but I'll try not to keep you all waiting too long! Any mistakes are entirely my own fault. Also I don't own Whitechapel.**

 **Also on AO3**

* * *

It's an unusually sunny day for London, although it is in fact summer, (but in Britain that can mean anything from heat to hailstones), and DC Kent finds himself having a quiet cry in a secluded part of the car park behind the Met Office. It's not as if he can go in the loos; Chandler would no doubt find him, accidentally, on a quest to wash his hands or change his shirt – it's been one of those weeks. Or Miles could find him, or – God forbid – Mansell. Then he'd never bloody live it down.

He sighs, letting a couple of tears fall: sometimes it's best to get it all out and hope that no one notices when he goes back in with red eyes and a stuffy nose, croaking when he tries to speak. He just couldn't bloody contain it anymore.

They've been chasing a madman all week, but then again they get all the mad cases, so that's not saying much, this particular madman though, (the man bit is an educated guess, based on the frankly brutal method of killing), has a penchant for young lads. Not that young mind you, thankfully the criminal doesn't appear to have a taste for teens or kids, because that would just be a bit too much, but the victims are young all the same. There have been three of them so far, within the short time frame of six days, this being the seventh. They're all in their early twenties, sliced open from neck to groin, with the skin peeled back. Apparently this had been done while they were alive, after which their killer would remove their livers, and then put them out of their misery by strangling them with a piece of rope, judging from the marks around what's left of the skin around the throats.

The latest vic, number three, found last night, happened to look a bit like one of Kent's old flat mates. Not enough to suspect that it was him, (the age wasn't right), but enough that Kent's stomach had dropped momentarily, like when you're feeling your way through the dark and you put a foot wrong. He'd just been down to look at the body in pathology; Llewellyn had been kind enough to let him have another look at the poor bloke's face, just to reassure himself that it wasn't his friend who led there.

The temporary shock of it, combined with a shift that's run on for more than 24 hours now, and the eventual relief he supposes, are just some of the reasons he now finds himself wiping away the saltwater tracks that are slowly tricking their way down his face. He sniffs, and pulls a tissue out of his pocket to blow his nose and wipe his eyes – not in that order of course. You'd think that after being a Detective Constable for five sodding years, and four of those dealing with the weirdest cases that Whitechapel had to offer, he'd have toughened up enough not to have to sneak out of the building for a hopefully not so obvious weeping session. Kent thinks it's part of what keeps him from diving head-first off the edge they're always close to. He can have a cry and let some of the bad stuff in his head flow out through his tear ducts and down his face, or at least that's how he likes to think of it.

He knows he'll have to go back in soon, but he'd rather stay where he is for a few more seconds, soaking up some of the sun's rays while he can. It's not as if he gets much chance for it, criminals tend to operate at night, and the office is mostly basement. He read somewhere that spending some time in the sun each day can have all sorts of benefits. There's vitamin D of course, but the article had said that it can slow your heart rate, act as a de-stressor, and heaven knows they need it. Maybe he should find the article and let the boss know. He knows that if he suggests it to anyone else he'll just get some good-natured ribbing for his efforts. Then again he'll probably get that if anyone sees him talking to the boss about the beneficial properties of controlled sun exposure.

He swipes any remaining moisture from his eyes and heads back towards the front doors. He wonders if he should carry a mirror in his pocket for occasions like these, then he'd be able to check the state of his features before heading back in to face the team. Probably best not to though; he doesn't need that rumour flying around the station, there's already too much going round about his team, and a couple of them are referring to him. Bloody coppers. They're a nosey bunch, himself included, but that's just part of the job.

Kent keeps his head down as he walks through the front doors, watching out of the corner of his eye for signs that anyone is paying undue attention to him. Some people – see Sergeant Miles – are able to deflect attention away from them by acting like they own the place, but Kent has never been good at that sort of bravado, so he employs the tactic of keeping a low profile and blending into his surroundings as much as possible.

There's no hope of that working once he gets into the incident room though. As soon as he gets through the door Riley's turning towards him, pulling a sympathetic face when she catches his eye. They must still be red. Damn his complexion. At least Riley's acknowledging him; things had been a bit touch and go between them since the whole Mansell on the roof scenario (as he called it). For a couple of weeks following that he thought that she'd never smile at him again. Not that he didn't deserve it, with hindsight it was a shitty move, from both a personal and professional point of view. They had been dark times for all of them, interspersed by the light of catching the Abrahamians, only to have it, and them, snatched away.

He had gone for that drink with Chandler though, in the end. Surprisingly it had been the DI that had asked, Kent had been too wary of jinxing the fragile peace they'd managed to claw back for themselves.

The young DC looks up from where he's stood, just finishing putting his coat on the back of his chair. From the way the DI's cup was positioned on his desk it looked like he had run out of green tea, and Kent fancied a cuppa himself, so he'd better make one for the boss too. It was only polite. He glances over to where Miles is sat.

"Cup of tea Serge?" he asks, not bothering to try and disguise the roughness in his voice. Miles had probably known he would be going out for a cry before Kent himself did. Luckily the older man doesn't mention it.

"Yes please, lad." He replies, not lifting his head up.

"Riley?" Kent asks.

"Ooh, yes please, love. I'm gasping."

Kent smiles, moving over to where the kettle is. He busies himself while the kettle boils. Selecting the mugs, making sure the boss' is extra clean, putting the tea bags in, anything to keep his mind from wandering back to the case. When it boils he pours the water into the DI's cup first: green tea takes the longest to brew. He leaves Miles' and his own tea bags in a little longer than Riley's, adding milk and two sugars to the other DC's before carrying it over to her desk.

"Thanks, sweetie." She says, offering him a brief, warm smile. He returns it as best he can and heads back over to collect Miles' cup. Just a drop of milk in that one.

"Here you are Skip." He says, putting the mug down carefully in what seems the only clear spot on the desk.

"Thanks." The Sergeant mutters, still absorbed in whatever he's doing. Kent doesn't really want to ask.

He goes back to his own tea, taking the bag out but holding off with the milk, he's still got to take the boss' tea to him, and he doesn't want his own getting cold and slimy before he gets a chance to drink it. He carefully removes the green teabag with a spoon, pressing it against the side of the mug before lifting it out to discard of it. The DI likes it well brewed, and Kent prides himself on getting these things right. Not that he has to make the tea, he's been in this particular team longer than Mansell and Riley, since the Ripper, but he likes to feel useful, especially at times like this.

He picks up the spotless mug and heads over to the small office. He raps on the door, waiting for the quiet 'come in' before entering.

"Tea, sir." He says, picking up the empty mug from the coaster and replacing it with the freshly brewed one.

The DI looks up at him, gracing him with that little half smile that never fails to make Kent's heart race a little like a school kid with a crush. He tries to shove the thought away; it's a little too close for comfort.

"Thank you, Kent." He says, picking up the mug to take a sip of the dark liquid inside.

"It's no trouble, sir." Kent replies. He takes a moment to study the DI's face. He looks worn out, but that's not surprising; they all do. He knows that out of all of them the boss feels it most though. Knows that each death, each 'failure' eats away at him. Kent wonders how many times Chandler has washed his hands today, if he's changed his shirt more than once, if he's thought about the bottle of scotch that Kent knows is stored in the bottom draw of his desk.

The DC takes note of the shadows under the Inspector's eyes, more purple than usual, thrown into stark relief against the pale skin, with lines on the forehead and around the eyes that are more prominent than usual, hinting that the boss is nursing a headache. Kent follows the tense line of Chandler's neck down to his shoulders; weighed down with care. He carries on along the arms to the boss' hands, strong and capable, as they wrap around the mug. There's the slightest tremor to them which betrays the feelings of their owner, speaks of how long they've all been awake. His careful study is interrupted by the Chandler clearing his throat.

"Is everything alright Detective?" the DI asks, placing the mug down to rub at his temples, though the tiger balm which usually aids this is unusually absent.

"Yes, sir." Kent says, even though he knows that the boss will have picked up on the redness that he's certain still surrounds his eyes, and mars his sclera. Then again he's not the only one with bloodshot eyes by the looks of it, although he seriously doubts that Chandler's affliction has been caused by tears.

"I'll have that report on the vics family and friends on your desk soon, sir." He adds, deflecting the conversation from the track that it may have taken had they remained in silence for any longer. He doesn't really feel like being called out on his little white lie at this particular moment in time. He acknowledges the boss' nod with one of his own, and heads back into the incident room to collect his own tea: he'll probably need to add some more water to it to heat it up.

Unfortunately for him and his tea Mansell decides to enter the room, and demands his own cup.

"Can't you make your own bloody tea?" Kent mutters as he switches the kettle back on.

"Course I can," Mansell replies, "but why would I bother when I've got you to make it for me." The man chuckles at his own little joke; Kent rolls his eyes, and begrudgingly gets out another mug and adds a tea bag to it. He's half tempted to dump a load of sugar and milk in the mug, despite knowing full well that Mansell likes his tea black, and thinks that anyone who has it differently is 'a pansy, begging your pardon, Serge'. Kent wants to avoid an argument though, so he just pours the newly re-boiled water into the mug and puts it on Mansell's desk, far enough away from the man's unruly arms; more than one mug had been lost that way. Kent finally adds milk to his own tea, and goes back to his desk to get on with the report that he'd promised the boss.

They're all desperately searching for a connection between their victims, other than the fact that they're all of a similar age, build, and other generally useless identifiers. Gary Hoxton, the first victim, stares up at Kent from the picture he's just picked up. It's one he's looked at what seems like a hundred times during the course of the week, and it doesn't look as if it's going to trigger any 'Eureka!' moments now. Gary had been 22, well liked by his flatmates, and his fellow students on his Biomedical Sciences Masters course at Queen Mary. No known enemies either; another thing that seems to link all the victims. In contrast to Gary, Jason Sewell had never been to University; he'd left education at 16 to become an apprentice joiner. Jason had a good client base, with no complaints as far as the team could find. He'd been the second victim, found two streets away from his home by the paperboy just after 6am.

The final victim, the one who had crawled under Kent's skin and into his head, was Steven Cooke, 21. He'd just finished his BA in Architecture at London Met, and his tutors had said he was set for greatness, a real prodigy. He'd been in a band too; Kent had seen a couple of their gigs, the name had something to do with foxes, but he couldn't quite remember it despite having written the name down himself somewhere. The poor lad had been heading home from a night of celebration when he'd been taken. The owner of a local Indian restaurant had been unfortunate enough to discover him in the rubbish skip behind his property when he came in to open up for the day.

In fact all of the victims so far had been found in, or next to places of refuse disposal, which had caused Buchan to suggest that their killer viewed his targets as nothing more than rubbish themselves. Sadly it didn't give them anything to go on; it wasn't as if they could post policemen outside of every bin in central London and hope that one of them would come across someone disposing of a body. Actually, they might catch some killers that way, but they had neither the resources nor the inclination.

All the blokes seemed perfectly ordinary to Kent. Normal lads going about their everyday lives until they'd been unlucky enough to be targeted by one of Whitechapel's resident lunatics. They'd been practically crawling out of the woodwork these past four years. Maybe there was something in Crispin Wingfield's theory, which had been taken up by Ed and Miles – an unlikely pair of bedfellows if ever there was one, that there was a provocateur in London. An entity that incited people to do evil acts in Whitechapel. Evil acts which often ended up landing at their door. He's seen Ed's map, the sites that Wingfield had been watching. He knew they all surrounded the Met, surrounded them. No one else's team has had such a persistent streak of bad luck in terms of losing their killers to suicide, assassination, and accidental deaths.

Kent let out a long, slow, breath, trying to relieve some of the stress that he could feel building up. The relief that sometimes came from having a good cry never lasted long enough for his liking; it hardly made it worth the hassle. He turns back to the files that are carefully laid out on his desk, checks the list of people he still needs to contact, though they've pretty much exhausted the lists for the first two victims. Still he's got a couple of Jason's friends he still needs to contact, and then he can put that list to rest and concentrate on finding out more about Steven and any connections he may have to the other victims.

* * *

By end of shift everyone is looking pale and drawn but there's an edge of relief to their faces; no more bodies have been found as of yet so they're all allowed to go home until tomorrow, unless anything else gets called in that is. Kent is pleased on behalf of Miles and riley that they get to head home for a bit, they've both got partners to see, kids to spend time with, people who miss them whilst they're away. Even Mansell has Erica, although these days Kent tries to think about that a little as is possible: he's worried that if he dwells on it some of his more unsavoury characteristics might make a sudden return.

Kent has his flatmates to return to, if he feels like it, but he'd much rather stay here for a bit and focus on the case while it's quiet. It probably won't do him or the case any good; it's not as if light bulb moments tend to occur when you're running a day behind in terms of sleep. He can always catch a catnap at his desk if he has to. Besides, he knows that Chandler doesn't have flatmates, or a partner and kids to go home to, just an empty flat, and Kent knows all too well how the mind manages to get stuck in dark thoughts and have a bit of a wallow in them when it's left alone for too long.

Kent pulls his phone out; he'd better send a text to his flatmates now that he's decided he's staying at the station. He sends a generic one to David, who's probably still at work himself, and a more personal one to Ellie; she'll be heading home by this time, she likes to go to work earlier so she can get out before the rush hits, one of the benefits of a job with flexi time. He lets her know he'll be back late, if at all, and that yes he will remember to eat something. She means well, he knows that, but sometimes it's like living with his mum.

Just as he presses send on the phone, Mansell decides it would be a good idea to flick his ear in passing. Kent turns his head to glare at his partner; he's thankful that they've more or less slipped back into the casual relationship they had before Mansell starting dating his sister, but he could do without the physical reminders.

"Bugger off, Mansell." He says, rubbing his ear; it had been a rather vicious flick.

Mansell laughs, "I'm off mate, Erica's expecting me, and you know what happens if you keep her waiting."

Kent rolls his eyes, although he does indeed know that Erica can get a bit scary when she's impatient.

"Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow." He replies, trying his best to ignore the slight leer on Mansell's face. It's a look that generally precedes some sort of smutty comment.

"Alright mate, don't get up to any funny business while I'm away." Mansell says, the leer becoming more pronounced. That's another thing Kent could do without, the friendly 'banter' that was part and parcel of every relationship that Mansell had.

"Oi, leave the poor lamb alone." Riley says, coming to stand next to Kent's chair. "If he wants some alone time with the boss, who are we to judge?" she adds, a laugh hidden in her voice.

"Don't you have kids to head home to?" Kent asks, "Places to be, that sort of thing?"

"Of course I do," Riley says, "but you're so easy to wind up I just couldn't contain myself."

"Very funny." Kent mutters, "Go home and leave me to my paperwork." He softens the retort with a huff of breath and a small smile.

"Well I know when I'm not wanted." says Mansell, throwing Riley and Kent a smirk before strolling from the room. Riley laughs out loud at that.

"No you bloody don't!" she shouts after him. Still smiling she gives Kent's shoulder a brief squeeze and then heads out into the corridor. "Bye, Skip! Bye, boss." she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.

That just leaves Kent and Miles in the room, Chandler's still there of course, he's just shut away in his office, probably hasn't even notice that everyone's heading home.

"Have you not got a home to go to, kid?" Miles has got up from his desk whilst Kent wasn't looking; he hopes to whatever God that's listening that he hadn't been staring at the boss' door like a grade A twit. He thinks he might have been judging from the look on Miles' face.

"I'm alright Serge." he replies, "I was going to stay here for a bit, see if anything jumps out at me when I've not got Mansell pulling faces at me."

Miles nods, as if he can't see through Kent's transparent attempt at an excuse to stay behind and keep an eye on Chandler. Kent can't help it, it's second nature by this point; why should he bother going home when he knows he can be of more use here? It's not even got anything to do with the boss, not really. At least that's what he likes to tell himself.

"Alright then, but I don't want you here all night, go home and get some sleep." Miles says, "Try to make sure that that idiot gets some as well." He adds, nodding towards the closed door of Chandler's office. They both know there's not much chance of that happening, just as the Sergeant knows that Kent probably won't go home unless Chandler does, preferring to offer some solidarity by being utterly pig-headed and refusing to get any rest, never mind the fact that it leaves both of them a little closer to non-functional.

Kent can practically see the thoughts running behind Miles' eyes, but he doesn't confirm or deny them, just smiles and asks Miles to say 'Hi' to Judy and the kids for him. (They'd grown on him, despite his first rather awkward encounter with young Sarah at the Christening party.)

"Will do." Miles assures him. "Liam and James are still in awe of your, and I quote, 'mad guitar skills', from the last time you were round."

Kent hangs his head, they'd gone out to the pub about a week ago (the team that is) and Kent had got a bit tipsy. So much so that when they headed back to Miles' for a couple of extra drinks at the Sergeant's behest he'd decided it would be a great idea to demonstrate his guitar playing on James' instrument, which had been propped up in a corner of the living room.

"Well I'm glad someone remembers the occasion favourably." He murmurs, shaking his head at his own antics. Miles chuckles, slapping him on the back before heading to knock on the door that separates Chandler's office from the rest of the incident room. Kent watches as he opens the door.

"I'm off boss." Miles says, "You should think about heading home yourself."

Chandler looks up from where he's sat.

"I'll just stay for another hour or so." The DI says, and Kent watches at Miles rolls his eyes.

"Make sure you do." the Sergeant says, "This one won't go home unless you do and it's no good if you both end up falling asleep on the job tomorrow."

Kent resists the urge to sigh, he should've known he wouldn't be able to get away with staying without Miles making some sort of subtle remark about it, or not so subtle, as the case may be.

Chandler swivels his head and catches Kent's eye just as the young DC is trying to avoid it. Kent offers him a grimace and a shrug; the boss knows he usually stays behind after everyone is gone, just because Miles says that it's because of him, doesn't mean Chandler necessarily has to believe it. Chandler's brow furrows in response, like he's not quite sure what to make of Kent or Miles' reasoning.

"I'm sure we'll be fine Miles." The DI says, turning back to face his Sergeant.

"Yeah, well, can't say I didn't bloody try." Miles mutters, leaving the door to Chandler's office open as he walks back to his desk to pick up his coat and keys. "See you both tomorrow." He says as he exits the incident room.

Miles' departure leaves a slightly uncomfortable silence in its' wake. Kent isn't sure if he should get up and close the door to Chandler's office, or whether the DI will do it himself, or if he wants it kept open now that there's not as much noise as there usually is in the office. Maybe he should offer to make the boss another cup of tea; they'll need it if they're both staying. Kent's contemplating getting up and just making one anyway when his train of thought is derailed.

"Kent, a word, please?" comes the request from Chandler's office. Kent swallows nervously before getting up out of his chair and walking to stand just outside door that divides the incident room.

"Yes, sir?" he asks, not quite daring to meet Chandler's eye, lest he's done something that's made the boss uncomfortable. He can't quite bear to look up and see the possible stress and disapproval in his superior's face.

"Would you come in please, I'm not going to bite."

Kent does look up at that. The boss seems to be wearing a half-smile, half-smirk on his face, as if pleased with his own little joke. Kent smiles in return, a bit sheepish as he steps further into the office.

"Sorry, sir." he mumbles.

"You don't have to stay behind you know." Chandler says after a short pause.

"And neither do you, sir." Kent replies, emboldened by the DI's earlier humour.

Chandler sighs.

"I can't go home and sit in an empty flat Kent, not while there's a case on, and we're no nearer to catching the killer than we were after the first victim."

"You'll think of something, sir." Kent assures him. "You haven't failed us yet." He hopes that his tone of voice doesn't betray all of the feeling behind his unshakeable trust in the man sat in front of him. He thinks a bit of it might leak through though, as Chandler looks slightly disbelieving, as he always does when there's any mention of the fact that the team have faith in him. That anyone has faith in him. That, and Kent thinks that the boss still believes that he has to prove himself to them, that he still has to fight to be accepted as part of the team, as their leader.

"I wouldn't quite say that." DI Chandler murmurs, confirming Kent's thoughts.

"I'm sure Miles has told you before sir, but no one else is as good as solving cases as you are. No one picks up the details like you do."

"He may have mentioned it a couple of times." Chandler concedes.

"Well there you are then, sir." Kent says softly. There's another lull in the conversation, both of them wrapped up inside their own heads.

"I don't suppose -" the DI begins, "I don't suppose you'd like to keep me company home before you head back yourself? Just for a little while."

Kent has to fight to keep his mouth from gaping open slightly.

"Of, of course not, sir." he stammers. If he does, it will only be the second time he's entered Chandler's home, the first being after they finally went for that drink, and even then it was only for a couple of minutes; Chandler had promised to lend him a book, and had said that he might as well collect it.

Also, if Chandler is inviting him home, without the influence of alcohol, or the more relaxed setting of a casual outing, then the man must really be in need of a distract. Or possibly the lack of sleep is addling his mind, in which case, Kent probably shouldn't be taking advantage of the offer to spend time with Chandler outside of the office.

"I've heard that it helps to talk about things, sometimes." Chandler says, repeating words from a conversation they'd had some weeks ago.

Kent makes an assenting noise in the back of his throat.

"Good advice that, sir." he says with a slight smile. He gets one in response from the DI, but there's still too much tension in the boss' shoulder's for it to really ease any of Kent's concern. "I'll get my coat, sir."

As he leaves the small office he notices that the incident room could do with a tidy, and resigns himself to the fact that he'll have to have a pick up before they leave because otherwise Chandler will do it, and then he'll probably see something else that needs doing, and then Kent will never convince him to go home and get some rest. He walks over to the rubbish bin and quickly collects the few bits of detritus that have collected over the long shift. He's just putting his coat on when he hears Chandler closing the door to his office.

"I'm ready to leave when you are, sir." he says.

Chandler nods before walking towards the door of the incident room; Kent follows in his wake, switching the light off as they leave.

They make their way out of the building and towards the car park, it's not that late, only 10 or 15 minutes after Miles' left them, and there's still a reasonable number of staff milling around the station. Kent tries not to speculate on what people might be thinking, but his thoughts range wildly from the hope that most people will ignore them to the idea that someone will guess he's going round to his superior's house and that the gossip will have gone twice round the station and found its way to Commander Anderson by morning.

When they reach the car park, Kent veers off towards his moped, after letting Chandler know that he'll follow him back. He waits for the DI's car to start before starting his own vehicle, trailing behind all the way to Chandler's flat.

* * *

The flat is still and silent (as one would expect of an empty flat) when they step through the door. Chandler gestures for Kent to hang his coat up while he locks the door, before shedding his own top layer, and placing it on the hook beside Kent's. They stand in the hallway, both mute apart from their breaths until Chandler breaks the quiet.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks.

"Um, yes, thank you, sir, I could make it if you like?" Kent replies, tripping over his words a little. He never did really out-grow his childhood clumsiness.

Chandler looks a little taken aback, and Kent kicks himself, he's not at work, and this is Chandler's flat, he shouldn't be imposing, asking to make a mess of what he knows will be a spotless kitchen. Luckily for Kent, Chandler recovers quickly, the slightly shocked look smoothing over into something more neutral.

"I invited you over, Kent, you shouldn't be making the tea." he says, moving out of the hallway.

Kent follows, a little warily, into the kitchen. As he had guessed, it's immaculate, although not as cold as he'd expected. There's a novelty salt and pepper set in the shape of policeman sat on the side; they seem a little out of place but they warm the room none the less.

"They were a gift from Miles." Chandler says. He'd obviously caught Kent eyeing the shakers.

"I like them, sir." Kent says, reaching out to touch the little figurines, but stopping himself just before he gets there. Luckily Chandler is too preoccupied with the tea things to notice.

"Perhaps we could forgo the 'sir' bit, whilst we're not at work?" Chandler requests.

Ah. Not that preoccupied then.

Sorry s-, sorry, force of habit." Kent says apologetically. He's no idea what he's supposed to call Chandler if not sir, he doesn't remember using any sort of titles for him when they'd been at the pub, but then again he's pretty sure he's never heard anyone call the boss by his first name except for Ed, and perhaps Judy. Miles called him all sorts of names, Mansell generally referred to him as the boss, as did Riley. Also if he's not supposed to call the DI 'sir' out of work, should Kent invite him to use Emerson instead of his surname? He laments the fact that no one's written a handbook on how to talk to your boss (who you may be slightly in love with) outside of work. Or maybe someone has written it, and Kent just hasn't been lucky enough to come across it. You'd think if there was one Mansell would have pointed it out by now, it's the kind of thing he'd find out about, just to have more material to tease Kent with.

Kent's so immersed in his thoughts that he doesn't notice that the kettle had boiled until a warm cup of tea is being placed in his hand. He looks down at the brown liquid, which happens to be the perfect colour. He doesn't dwell on what it means that Chandler knows how he likes his tea.

"Thank you." he says, taking a small sip. It tastes just right too.

"Would you like to sit down?" Chandler asks, indicating the table and chairs that sits at one end of the room.

"Oh, yes, err, thank you." Kent says, walking over and pulling one of the chairs out. He places his cup on a handy coaster before he sits down, and watches as Chandler does the same. They sit quietly for a couple of minutes, occasionally sipping mouthfuls of tea. Kent knows that he should probably say something, the boss had mentioned something about talking earlier, but he doesn't know what to say. He's never been good at these sorts of things, that's always been Erica's forte. Mostly he's used to being talked at, letting people work through their problems by getting everything out in the open and sorting through it themselves, with very little input from his end. He's saved the trouble of having to come up with anything as Chandler decides to start the conversation.

"I keep thinking that I must have missed something."

Kent can only assume that he's referring to the case, this, at least, is familiar ground.

"I don't think you have, si-, I don't think so. There's just not much to go on." Kent replies. He wishes he had words of comfort to offer, but he knows that they would be empty in this situation. He can't promise that it's all going to be alright when he doesn't know that for sure.

"There must be something, somewhere." Chandler says, "I just haven't seen it yet."

Kent responds with a small, non-committal noise. Even Ed hadn't been able to find much in terms of history for this case. Of course, there were plenty of murders involving mutilation, plenty where the method of death is strangulation. There are numerous cases where organs have been removed as well, but they're not related. Buchan had suggested the idea of 'muti murders, also known as 'medicine murders'. These cases, which occur mainly in southern Africa, involve murders taking place in order to harvest body parts for traditional black magic. He'd cited the 'Kei Ripper' murders of 2008 that took place in South Africa. Some people believed that if the organs were taken from live victims then this would serve to make the medicine or 'muti' stronger. The link however, was tenuous at best. The killer had only taken the livers of the victims, something which would be unusual if the killer wanted to use body parts for black magic, or make a profit by selling them on the black market.

"I think you might be over thinking it." Kent suggests, finishing the last of his tea. He looks over at Chandler and sees that his cup is also empty. "Would you like me to wash the cups?" he asks. It takes the other man a moment to reply.

"Oh, that's alright, thank you, I'll get them." Chandler says, moving to get up from his chair.

"It wouldn't be any trouble." Kent says, "After all, you made the tea, the least I can do is clean up."

"If you're sure." Chandler replies, handing Kent the cup. The younger man heads over to the sink, washing the cups out thoroughly before drying them with the tea towel he sees folded over a draw handle, and then returning everything to its proper place. He half expects Chandler to be watching him, making sure he's put everything back where it came from, but as he turns he finds Chandler staring at the whorls in the wooden table top, as if they hold the answer to the case. He makes his way back to the table, unsure of whether or not he should sit down again, or whether he should leave. Chandler must notice him hovering as he says;

"I'm sorry, you probably need to get back to your own flat, have something to eat."

To be perfectly honest Kent had completely forgotten about food but now that it's been mentioned, his stomach decides to betray him, sounding out a low rumble, followed by an embarrassingly loud gurgling noise.

"Sorry." He mutters, glaring down at his stomach, as if it was his body's fault that he hadn't fed it.

"No, no, it's my fault for keeping you." Chandler insists.

"You need to eat as well." Kent reminds the older man gently. Chandler looks up.

"Yes, I suppose I do." He admits, with a self-deprecating smile.

"We could get something, take-out I mean, I don't -, I don't have to be anywhere." Kent's not sure if he's crossed a line by saying that, but he's not really sure what line he's supposed to be toeing, so if he has it can't be helped.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit particular about takeaways." Chandler confesses, as if being a bit fussy about where your food comes from is a crime. Kent's been in enough dodgy kebab shops to know that a bit of wariness about food preparation is practically a life-saving skill in some situations.

"That's fine, you can pick, if you like. Or I could have a go at cooking?" Kent's pretty sure that whatever line he was trying to avoid crossing, he's just stepped over it. He doesn't know what's wrong with him today. Probably the lack of sleep. Possibly the fact that he's stood in Chandler's flat, that Chandler invited him back to his flat.

"You cook?" Chandler asks, seeming surprised.

"You don't have to look so shocked." Kent remarks, although he injects some warmth into his voice to take any possible sting out of the words. "I do have to eat sometimes."

"I didn't mean to offend." Chandler says, his smile assuring Kent that no sting was felt. "I just wasn't expecting it."

Kent shrugs. "My mum taught me. Erica didn't want to learn, and mum had to pass her skills onto someone. What about you, do you cook?" He's getting better at stopping himself from tagging 'sir' onto the end of every sentence.

"When I have to." Chandler says. "I learnt out of necessity." There's a tone to his voice which suggests that the 'necessity' was to do with something a bit more serious than going off to uni and having to fend for himself. Kent sifts through his memories, trying to remember if Miles had mentioned anything about Chandler's early life at any point. He thinks there was a vague mention of a father, and a dislike for the drownings. Something to do with Mediums as well. He decides that it would be best not to ask, it's not a conversation to have after an incredible trying week, maybe it's a conversation they'll never have, but Kent stores the information in his head for future reference, just in case.

"I can go back to mine if you want a bit of peace, sir." Kent offers, slipping the title in at the end as if it will serve as a buffer to the rejection that he's expecting.

Chandler grimaces at the slip, further convincing Kent that he should be ready at a moment's notice to go and get his coat.

"I wouldn't mind if you would like to stay for dinner, if you can spare the time, that is." Is the response Kent gets, to his surprise.

"Err, yeah, that would be fine, sir."

"On one condition," Chandler says, "You stop calling me 'sir' in my own home."

* * *

They end up getting a Chinese from a little place about five minutes away. Chandler says that he'd driven past it one night after finishing up a case and that the place had looked so inviting he'd gone into have a look. When Kent raises an eyebrow, Chandler admits he's not usually one for spontaneity, but he does have his moments. The takeaway is a bit more expensive that what Kent is used to, but he insists on paying for his own half, otherwise the whole evening would seem like a date, and although he'd like it to be, it's really not. At least he thinks it isn't. What it is, is two colleagues, he'd like to think two friends, spending some time together after a difficult week, offering each other some support.

Dinner passes by without incident; it's enjoyable, but Kent can tell that the boss is on edge still, waiting for a call, and Kent himself is half-waiting for the ring of a phone to pull them from their evening. It gets to just after nine though, and Chandler's phone still hasn't rung. (It had beeped when Miles had text him asking if he'd gone home yet, but that's not the kind of contact they need to worry about.)

Kent has thankfully managed to avoid calling Chandler 'sir' since his earlier lapse, and they've fallen into a mostly comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional comment, such as Kent's 'This is good.', or the boss' 'Please could you pass the sweet chilli sauce.', and the sounds of two people eating. After dinner Kent helps clean up, although Chandler insists on doing the washing up this time. (It's a bit domestic, made all the more strange by the fact that they're both quite comfortable with it.)

When the clock ticks round to ten o'clock, Kent knows that he should really be heading back to his flat. He feels a bit guilty about all the paperwork he'd meant to get done at the office before the unexpected, but welcome invitation from Chandler. He knows that he'll be more productive if he manages to get some sleep though. There's an empty cup of tea sat in front of him that he's been toying with for the last 15 minutes, loathe to leave, even though he's aware that he's got to do it at some point. He gets up to wash it out in the sink, leaving Chandler's where it is as it's still half full, and green tea reheats much better than his Earl Grey. He watches out of the corner of his eye as the DI's head tracks his movement across the room, as if observing an animal in an unfamiliar habitat. That's how Kent feels at least, although he's become more familiar with the space by degrees as the evening's worn on. He now knows where Chandler keeps his cups, which draw he keeps the napkins in, things he never expected to know, but enjoys knowing all the same. He drags drying the cup out for as long as he dares before finally putting away in the cupboard above the sink. He makes his way back over to the table, pausing for a moment next to the boss.

"I'd best be off, my flatmates will be wondering where I've got off to." Kent says. They won't actually; they're probably not expecting him back after the text he'd sent earlier whilst at the office, he needs something to say though to cover up the fact he'd rather stay here in the warmth of Chandler's kitchen.

"Hmm?" Chandler says, starting a little at the sound of Kent's voice. "Oh, yes, of course." The older man nods and brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Kent wants to put a hand on his shoulder, but even though he thinks of them as friends, he knows the boss isn't the greatest fan of physical contact when he hasn't initiated it himself. Still, it's a struggle not to reach out, to offer whatever comfort he can. Sometimes you just need to remind yourself that you're not alone.

"Thank you for inviting me round." Kent says, and suddenly he feels like he's 12 again, thanking a friend's mum for having him round for tea, which is not really how he'd wanted to come across. Chandler doesn't seem to mind though.

"Thank you for providing me with some company." The DI replies with a small upturn of one side of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but almost. Kent returns it with a full smile of his own.

"It's no trouble." he says.

"I'll see you out." Chandler offers, moving his chair back and sliding out gracefully from where he'd been sat before pushing the chair back under the table, all in one smooth movement. Kent can only wish he was that graceful, but he's like a newborn foal compared to Chandler. He doesn't know what that makes Mansell, possibly a drunk newborn foal. He shakes his head at the thought and follows Chandler out into the hallway, blinking against the light that Chandler had switched on, much brighter than that of the kitchen.

Kent grabs his coat from the line of hooks running across the wall, and shrugs it on.

"Thanks for the tea." he says, unsure of how to best phrase his goodbye.

"It's no problem." Chandler says quietly.

Kent's breath catches in his throat as Chandler lifts a hand and places it on the side of his arm.

"Maybe we could do it again sometime." the DI adds. After a couple of seconds Kent finally manages to wake his brain up enough to form words.

"I'd love to." it's becoming sort of a theme between them, a common phrase. "Maybe next time, you can come round to mine." he says, the hand on his arm lending him courage, like a couple of pints; he's got the same light-headed feeling as well.

"I'd love to." Chandler repeats. Kent doesn't think he'll ever get tired of those words, not when they're said like they're words that are only meant to be heard by the two of them. He places a hand over that of the older man's and squeezes briefly.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Kent says, letting go of Chandler's hand reluctantly. The boss' own hand moves slowly away from Kent's arm, fingers trailing slightly.

Chandler just nods in response, and leans round Kent to open the door for him.

"Goodbye." Kent says with a soft smile as he exits the flat. Chandler's answering 'Goodbye, Emerson.', and the lingering touch of a phantom hand on his arm warm him as he climbs aboard his moped and heads out into the cool London streets.

* * *

 **Well there it is, first chapter done, I hope it hasn't turned out too badly. Let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

The call that Kent had half been expecting to wake him in the night came through as he was making a cup of tea to go with his toast the next morning. He sighed softly, letting the breath drain out of his lungs, before inhaling and cutting off the incessant ringing.

"DC Kent speaking."

"We've got another one." says Miles' voice from the other end of the line, the resigned tone hinting that it's not a pretty sight wherever he's stood.

"Where abouts?" Kent asks, stirring his tea as Miles reels off the address.

"Alright skip, I'll be there as soon as I can." he says, taking a quick sip of the beverage that he'll never get to finish, he'd better pick up coffee on the way to the scene anyway; there probably won't be much for him to do, and lord knows that everyone will be needing a pick-me-up.

"You'd better." says Miles into his ear, "His nibs is going spare already and it's only half six."

Kent registers the line going dead before he has a chance to process Miles' words. Why had he mentioned that to Kent? It's not as if he can bloody do anything. He's been trying to help a bit more lately but dealing with the boss when he's having a bit of a wobble has generally been Miles' forte.

Running a hand through his hair, Kent grabs a piece of kitchen roll and shoves his piece of toast in it. He'll have to try and eat it on the way to the coffee shop. (Being a copper means you get to know all sorts of random things, like the nearest place that does coffee in every area, just in case there's a crime scene and the team is in need of a hot drink.)

Speaking of hot, it's already shaping up to be a bit of a scorcher, if the sun streaming through the windows is anything to go by. Then again, it's London, and the weather can change its mind without so much as a by-your-leave.

Just as he's throwing his jacket on, trying not to cover it in crumbs, he spots Ellie coming down the stairs.

"Everything alright?" she asks, looking a bit concerned. He must have his 'I've just got called in to look at a murder' face on.

"There's been another one." he tells her. Ellie frowns. Technically he's not supposed to talk to anyone about the active cases they've got going on, or half the closed ones for that matter, but as long as he doesn't over share on the details he reckons it's alright. Besides, he'd go mad if he didn't talk to someone outside the office about what was going on. He doesn't like to mention the cases to his mum – she'd not been keen on the idea of him being a policeman in the first place – and him and Erica, although still close, aren't quite back to where they were before she started going out with Mansell. Mansell probably tells her everything anyway now he thinks about it.

"Sorry about that." Ellie says. One thing he'd noticed they had in common right from the start was that they're always apologising for anything and everything.

Kent shrugs.

"I better be off." he says, "Have a good day at work, yeah?"

"I will, thanks." Ellie replies. She avoids telling him to have a good day too when there's a case on.

Kent smiles and steps out of the flat; Ellie will close and lock the door for him. He checks his watch; he can probably make it to the scene in ten minutes if the traffic isn't too bad, but it'll be more like 20 if he stops off for coffee. He wouldn't have bothered if it had just been for him, but everyone will whinge if he turns up without it; he doubts any of them got much shut eye. He'd been half awake for most of the night, on edge, waiting in the dark for his phone to ring and tell him another poor sod's been murdered.

Thankfully the drive is short, and the queue in the coffee shop isn't too terrible either. He makes it to the scene quarter of an hour from the time he left his flat, something he considers a job well done.

Kent's first impression of the crime scene is that it smells. Not a slight smell either, a full-on, olfactory attack. The temperature is already climbing, which hasn't helped things, but the real problem is that the alley where the body lies seems to be a dump site for all kinds of human waste. Some of it biological. He wrinkles his nose and tries his best not to think about it, but the stench keeps crashing steadily against his sense of smell, demanding to be heard. No wonder Chandler had been going spare.

He picks his way gingerly around the various bags and piles of rubbish, trying to avoid the waste that's spilled out of them and flowed onto the concrete. He approaches Riley and shares with her a commiserating look before handing her a cup of coffee.

"Cheers." she says, immediately taking a sip.

Kent nods towards the tent where he knows Chandler and Miles will be stood with Dr. Llewellyn.

"Same as the last lot?" he asks, pulling his cappuccino from the cardboard carrier and wafting it under his nose. It doesn't do anything to drown the rest of the smells around him.

"I think so." Riley replies, "The skipper said something about the liver but I didn't really catch it."

Kent hums.

"What about witnesses?"

"Just the one, the poor lad who found the body." Riley informs him, jerking her head towards a figure at the mouth of the alley. "I told him I'd give him five minutes to have a bit of a breather, I'm just about to go interview him, unless you want to?" she says, tagging a hopeful inflection on the end.

"Nah, you're alright thanks." Kent says. "You're better at that sort of thing than I am."

Riley tuts, and throws him a disparaging glance.

"Don't be daft." she says, ruffling his hair. Kent thinks that it's far too early for this sort of behaviour, especially when there's a body about 12 feet away from them, but he doesn't say that to Meg.

He watches as she walks off towards the young man who's leaning against the wall of the alley where it meets the street. The lad straightens up a little as Meg approaches and surreptitiously wipes at his eyes. Kent wonders if he knows the victim. It would make their lives slightly easier if someone could identify the dead from the get go, but they're rarely that lucky.

Kent meanders towards the tent, contemplating where Mansell could be. He's just about to pull his phone out of his pocket to send his partner a text when the man himself appears, his usual swagger falling away as he walks further into the alley. The smell must have hit him.

"Speak of the devil." Kent says as Mansell comes within hearing distance. "I was just wondering where the hell you were."

"Aww, did you miss me, mate?" Mansell jokes, the humour dulled slightly by the situation, and the fact that Mansell is pulling a god awful face in response to the smell. Kent thought he looked odd sometimes but this face took the biscuit.

"Do you have to pull that face?" he asks, "I don't know how Erica puts up with you if you look as good as that most days."

"It's my natural wit and charm, ain't it?" Mansell replies. "Have you got my coffee there?" he adds, peering down at the drinks in Kent's hands. Kent holds out the carrier so that Mansell can lift his cup out.

He's just starting to believe that the odour of the scene is getting somehow worse when Chandler and Miles emerge from the tent. Miles practically snatches the two remaining drinks from the holder, which Kent retains. He could just chuck it towards the nearest rubbish bag and he doubts anyone would notice (or care) but he'd rather wait for a bin than add to the mess.

Chandler takes his own beverage (green tea, never anything with milk) without a word, looking pale.

"What have we got Serge?" Mansell asks.

"This one's had their liver taken out and just dumped by the body." Miles says, after taking a long draw from his cup. "Caroline says that the vic had liver disease."

"So the killer didn't want the organ?" Kent speculates.

"It's possible." Miles replies, "Still doesn't explain why they didn't take any of the extra body parts though."

"Excuse me." Chandler mutters, walking off towards the main street. He's got better with dealing with messy cases over the years, Kent knows, but he also knows that it still affects him, especially if there's more dirt than usual around, which is definitely the case here.

Kent follows the DI with his eyes; he's always drawn to him, no matter where they are or what they're doing. (And isn't that inconvenient considering he's supposed to be watching his surroundings, and not his superior.) He wonders whether he should be following with his feet too, but then his eyes flick back to Miles, who's already looking at him a bit oddly. The Sergeant knows about Kent's feelings for Chandler, hell, half the bloody Met must know by this point, what with the rumour mill that's constantly grinding away. He resolves to stay put until later, when he'll try to catch Chandler on his own and ask if he's alright.

Miles continues relaying details of the crime as if their DI hadn't just walked off in the middle of a conversation.

"The doc says that the preliminary observation suggests that the body wasn't mutilated here, it was moved here, just like the others."

"What so the killer cuts this guy open, takes out his liver, and then thinks, 'I don't want this.' But instead of chucking it there and then he carries it along with the body to dump it here?" Mansell asks.

"Seems so." is Miles' reply, accompanied by a small shrug of his shoulders.

"Maybe the killer is using the livers for something." says Kent. It's a comment he made at the beginning of the investigation, and the only suggestions the team have come up with so far are that the murderer is either selling the organs, or eating them. That he's selling them doesn't really make much sense though; if the killer was after a profit, he would have taken all of the organs. Unless he's a liver specialist or something. If the killer is eating them, it would explain why only the liver was taken. Sort of anyway, seeing as the liver is one of the most commonly consumed types of offal.

"Well, one would hope that he's not just displaying them in his home." Miles says, the gruesome attempt at humour falling flat. "Anyway, Caroline says she'll have more for us later on, when they've got the results back from some of the tests."

Kent nods; there's nothing more to say really.

"Let's hope our witness will turn something up." Miles says, nodding to where Riley is stood talking to the individual in question, they'll have to take him into the station for a more formal interview, but it's best to try and get some of the facts as soon as possible. They'll have to check the CCTV for the area as well – there's nothing in the alley as far as Kent can see, but the killer must have transported the body here somehow.

When he turns back to look at Miles he finds the man has already headed off in the direction of the road. Kent turns instead to Mansell, who's got his phone out and appears to be texting. Kent rolls his eyes, he won't ask who it is; the answer is probably Erica and he doesn't want to think about the fact that Mansell probably spent the night over at her's or vice versa. He really doesn't want to think about it while he's running on coffee and half a piece of toast.

He leaves Mansell where he's stood; after all, the other constable knows his way back to the station.

As he rounds the corner out of the alleyway and onto the main stretch of pavement he nearly walks into Chandler, who's stood unnaturally still outside the window of an electronic repairs shop. He doesn't even seem to notice that Kent almost rammed into him. (And doesn't that phrase bring up some entirely inappropriate images.) Kent locates the nearest bin and shoves the drinks holder in it, all whilst keeping an eye on his boss. The older man has discarded the plastic suit he was wearing when he came out of the tent; it's probably been handed off to one of the SOCOs for disposal.

"I think we're just about done, sir." Kent says as he approaches Chandler. The DI doesn't seem to have heard him, and Kent's just about to repeat his words when the other man nods sharply, finally breaking out of his statue-like stance. The memory of the night before, sits between them, underlining the unnaturalness of the tension that currently sits in both their postures.

"Riley's going to bring the lad who found the body back to the station, we'll need to check CCTV, and Dr. Llewellyn says she'll have some results for us later on, although I suppose you already know that ..." Kent trails off, as it seems none of his words are reaching Chandler, despite the fact that there's barely a metre between them. A simple stride.

"Sir?" Kent asks, daring to reach out and touch Chandler's arm with a wary hand. That startles the DI out of his trance.

"Do you have a tissue?" Are the words that come tumbling out of Chandler's mouth. They weren't the ones Kent was expecting, but they explain the older man's slightly wild eyes.

"Oh, of course." Kent says, fishing around in his jacket pocket for the packet he knows is there. He locates the small slip of plastic and pulls it out, before handing Chandler a fresh tissue.

He watches as the other man wipes frantically at his hands, though Kent can't see anything on them.

"I've got some hand sanitiser." Kent offers, already reaching back inside his pocket for the small bottle he's been carrying around since he noticed Miles offering a similar one to the boss on a number of previous occasions. He hands it over wordlessly, exchanging the bottle for the tissue. Two liberal applications later, Chandler places the bottle back in his hand, and offers him a slightly sheepish look. Kent wishes he could erase it, replace it with something which doesn't hold a hint of shame. He's read about obsessive compulsive disorder, and the behaviours that go with it. Looked it up on the NHS website as soon as he'd gathered enough observational evidence (and hints from Miles) to know what he was looking for. Chandler was his superior, but they were a team, and teammates supported one another. Anyway, he's seen enough of Chandler's behaviour to be used to it, and he wants to reassure the DI that he's not judging him, he doesn't respect him any less for it, far from it, but he can never find the right words. Instead he offers a smile, hoping to put the Inspector at ease.

"I should be heading back to the station sir, I'm sure Sergeant Miles will have plenty for me to be getting on with." Kent says.

"Yes, of course." Chandler replies. "Thank you, Kent." he adds, softly.

"You're welcome, sir." Kent says, and walks off in the direction of his moped.

* * *

"Skip, come and look at this." Kent turns to see Mansell gesturing towards Miles, beckoning him over to look at the CCTV the Constable is currently sifting through.

"What have you got?" comes Miles' reply, "I could do with some good news."

Their witness hasn't given them any new leads, and they're still waiting on the pathology results. Kent's quite eager to get them, there's something about the fact that the killer is only taking the liver that's niggling at him, although the feeling hasn't led him to anything useful.

"Look." says Mansell. "Our bloke arrives an hour before the body was found in this car. Can't see the bastard's face but the vehicle should give us something to go off, right?"

Kent can see that the footage has peaked Miles' interest. They haven't had any footage of a car before now, just a couple of blurry images showing someone, presumably a man, in black clothing, who's of average height and weight.

"Good man." Miles says, clapping Mansell on the shoulder, he turns towards Kent, "Look up this car, see if there's one registered to someone in the area, if it's been reported stolen, you know the drill."

"Yes, skip." Kent says, walking over towards Mansell to jot down the make, model, and whatever they can get of the license plate; they could be fake, but he'll run it through the system anyway.

Ten minutes later, once his computer's woken up and he's fed the details into the system, he's got a number of matches on the vehicle make and model – it's apparently a popular car – and two matches for the partial registration plate. He tries the plate matches first. One was reported stolen just over a week ago, which sounds promising. The other brings up a Mr. Thomas Ranger. Kent decides to give the man a call. It rings twice before someone picks up.

"Hello?" says the voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello, this is Detective Constable Kent, with Whitechapel police, am I speaking to Thomas Ranger?"

"Yes." Mr Ranger replies, sounding confused.

"We're currently conducting an investigation and we'd like to ask you some questions, are you able to come into the station for an informal interview?"

"Err, of course, but why, is there -, have I done something wrong?" the man replies, haltingly.

"I'm afraid I can't disclose many details over the phone, sir, but we do need to establish some facts regarding you and your vehicle as part of an ongoing investigation." Kent says; Mr. Ranger sounds bewildered, a little shaky, but some people, as Kent has found out from years on the force, are excellent actors, even under pressure. "Would you be able to come in?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be there in less than half an hour, is that, is that alright?" asks Mr. Ranger.

"That would be fine, thank you." Kent says. "Please report to the front desk and ask for DC Kent or DS Miles."

The man repeats the names under his breath.

"I'll be in as soon as I can." he says.

"Thank you for your time." Kent replies, and ends the call. He gets up and walks over to where Miles is sat.

"I've got a match on the partial plate the vehicle gave us skip. I've asked the guy to come in; he says he'll be here in half an hour."

"Good lad." replies Miles, looking up from his work, I'll tell the boss and we'll have a chat with the man when he gets in. What's his name?"

"Thomas Ranger." Kent says. "60 years old, early retiree, lives not too far from where our first vic was found. I've got another match to look at, a vehicle that was stolen about a week ago."

"Hmm." says Miles "Could be useful."

"I'll follow it up, chase the report and get back to you." Kent assures the Sergeant.

"Thanks." Miles says.

Kent goes back to his desk to look up the other car. The report went in two days before their first victim was found, and the killer could be using a stolen car. That suggests that the murders were pre-planned, although the choice of victims is seemingly random. He look through the rest of the report, and decides not to contact the individual who reported it, as there's plenty of detail in the report itself, though he makes a note of the name, number, and address, just in case.

He leans back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face and through his hair, which has become more and more unruly as the day progresses. He'll have to go to the bathroom and try to flatten it down if it gets any worse. Stretching out his neck from side to side, Kent takes a quick glance around the room. Mansell's still watching the CCTV, probably the minutes after he saw the car, just to check if there's anything else that would help them. The older Constable looks like he's about to fall asleep at his desk, and Kent wonders what on Earth the man got up to last night. He cuts off that train of thought pretty quickly though, because the answer probably relates to his sister and things that he'd rather not think about. In fact usually Erica would be giving him all the gory details about her sex life but Kent had made it perfectly clear that if she so much as mentioned Mansell and sex in the same sentence, he'd be forced to tell mum about who really broke her favourite (and most hideous) vase when they'd last visited. (Erica had blamed it on the cat.)

Kent turns back to his computer and whiles away the next half hour going over some of their more obscure theories about the case, such as maybe these guys all worked together/knew each other at some point and now one of them's decided to go after the others. All Kent's turned up though is that two of their victims – Gary and Steven – occasionally went to the same pub, not exactly a stunning connection.

Kent hasn't even noticed he's alone in the incidence room until one of the Pathology team turns up with the blood work from their latest victim. He thanks the man and has a quick flick through the initial findings. They'd had a formal identification done earlier that morning; one of the flatmates of their most recent fatality. The man's ID had turned a name – William Fox – another young man with no obvious connection to the other victims and no obvious enemies. The pathology report added that there had been a large amount of alcohol in the man's system; Kent made a note to look at Riley's assessment of the victim's last movements, see if he'd been spotted at a pub or anything. Time of death was somewhere around 1 to 3 am that morning, and as with the others, the victim had been alive when the killer had started slicing. Also listed are the blood type and a confirmation of the observed liver disease.

Putting the file down with a sigh, Kent makes his way towards the whiteboard and adds the new information to the section under William's picture. He stares at the information for a while, eyes flicking to the writing that pertains to the other victims in the hope that he'll glean some new insight. That some piece of information will suddenly lead to the murderer that they're chasing, before he gets to anyone else.

Just as Kent's contemplating going to loos, just to get away from the staring faces of their victims, Ed walks in, balancing a number of files and loose sheets of paper.

"Hello, Kent." The archivist says, "I don't suppose you've seen Joe anywhere have you?"

Kent doesn't think he'll ever get used to the casual way Ed uses Chandler's first name. Kent knows he's been asked not to call the man 'sir' outside of work but he can't imagine calling the DI Joe just yet. (Except for in some half-formed fantasies involving quiet dates, and maybe a bedroom, but no one needs to know about what goes on inside the privacy of his own head.)

"I think he's gone with Sergeant Miles to conduct an informal interview." Kent replies, "Is there anything I can help you with?" He hopes that Buchan's found something useful.

"Ah, well, it's just a couple more ideas to explore, I've been researching the use of livers and other human organs in black magic, and I've also had a look into cannibalism, although some of that is left over from the case with that religious cult, the, erm, ..."

"The Abrahamians." Kent supplies quietly, thankful that Chandler isn't here to hear him speak the name. He hopes that Ed wasn't actually planning on bringing that up to the DI. His tone must convey some of his feelings to Ed as the man suddenly looks a little guilty.

"Yes, quite, knew it was someone from the Old Testament, anyway as I was saying, black magic. Did you know that in ..."

Kent zones out a little as Ed carries on with his dark tale, inserting what he hopes are appropriate noises here and there. He's not saying that Ed isn't useful, that he hasn't had his moments, but sometimes it's difficult to concentrate when he gets going with one of his stories.

"I'll come back later anyway, when Joe's around." Ed says, having finished whatever historical recollection he had been relating.

"Okay. I'll tell him you dropped in." says Kent, refocusing his previously blank gaze.

"No need, no need." Ed assures him. "I'll be back up before long." The man pauses to look at the whiteboard. "It's funny that all the victims have negative blood types." he says.

Kent turns to look at the information he'd written earlier, comparing it to the other blood types on the board. Ed is right.

"I think the pathology team said that the chances were that it was coincidence." The chances of that must be less though, now that they have a fourth individual with a negative blood type. "Besides, why would the killer need livers from a negative blood donor specifically? I mean, they're rarer so they'd be worth more on the black market, but that doesn't explain why he hasn't taken any other organs, or why he's only just started nicking body parts."

Ed's face falls a little, and Kent feels sorry that he was so quick to dismiss Ed's observation. He apologises.

"No, you're right." Ed says. "Anyway, it must be coincidence, how would the killer know?"

Kent's breath stops suddenly in his throat.

"How would they know?" he repeats slowly.

"Emerson, are you quite alright?" Ed says, looking rather concerned. Kent nods, swallowing.

"Sorry Ed, you've just given me an idea."

"I have?" Ed seems puzzled at the sudden turn of events.

"What if ..." Kent pauses, trying to gather the tenuous threads of his theory together, "What if are killer does know the blood types of the people he's targeting?"

"You mean could our killer work somewhere with access to that kind of information? A doctor, perhaps, hospital staff?"

"Something like that." The idea sparks another neuron in Kent's brain, which fires off and connects to another, and another, and before he's really conscious of what he's doing, he's sat at the computer, bringing up the blood donation website. He calls the number, but the questions he asks means that he'll need to go to the Royal London, and won't that just make his day.

"Ed, wait here for the DI or Sergeant Miles and let them know I've gone to the London, there's something I need to look at."

"Yes, but ..." Ed splutters, but Kent cuts him off;

"It might be nothing, but if it is, then you might have helped solve the case." he tells the older man, who looks utterly perplexed by Kent's behaviour. Kent doesn't give Ed a chance to ask any more questions though; he grabs his things, throws on his coat and is gone before Buchan can say another word.

* * *

Kent almost sprints back into the incidence room about an hour later, elation and frustration warring in his head. The emotions are causing so much noise that he doesn't realise that the rest of the team, who have all re-materialised in the length of time it took him to find out what he has, are looking at him like he's gone mad. It's only after he's put his coat on his chair and turned to face the rest of the room that he becomes aware of the fact that he's just interrupted Chandler in the middle of what looks like an information review.

There's a pause, and that gives birth to another pause, and that pause grows up to be a terrible and uncomfortable silence.

Kent feels a flush working the way up the back of his neck and curling round to climb its way onto his face, turning his features red and blotchy. His eyes flick immediately to Chandler's wide-eyed stare.

"Where on Earth have you been?" Miles says, which does little to diffuse the sudden tension in the room.

"Erm, sorry skip, I just had to pop out to the Royal London, you see Ed had this idea and ..."

"Yeah he said, but that doesn't explain why ..." interrupts Miles, who is then interrupted by Mansell, who exclaims loudly;

"But you hate the hospital!"

And Riley is nodding, and agreeing with someone, Mansell or Miles, who knows, and all of a sudden the incidence room is in chaos and Kent tries to keep his eyes away from Chandler, he really does, but as always they're drawn back to him. The DI is looking at him with a raised eyebrow, which might have a hint of humour in it but Kent has definitely got to be imagining that because everyone is stressed as it is and there's no way that Chandler is going to forgive him for this interruption, never mind the fact that yesterday they'd been eating Chinese takeaway together.

"Can we please get back to the board?" Chandler says in a quiet voice. Somehow it permeates the room, and everyone else's voices peter out as it reaches them.

Kent sits at his desk and tries his best to ignore the three sets of eyes that are boring into the side of his head, Chandler, thank God, has turned back to the whiteboard.

"As I was saying," the DI says, "Mr Ranger appears to be unconnected to the crimes, he has a solid alibi, and allowed us to check his car, which Dr Llewellyn assures us would show some sign of blood, somewhere. DC Kent, have you tracked down the stolen vehicle you flagged up earlier?" Chandler's eyes turn to fix on Kent once more.

"Erm, no, sir, I have the number of individual who reported the car stolen, but I haven't got in touch yet." Kent realises that this must make him look like a bit of a prat, after all, he'd told Miles he'd get back to him on the car. He'd started to run a search earlier, but then the pathology report had come in, and then Ed had appeared and Kent had had his 'light bulb' moment and went rushing off to the Royal without a second thought. He glances at his computer, bringing up the window with the search.

"I did search for the car in the police database though, sir, and there's nothing that matches the registration number that the report gives, so either the person who stole it has changed the plates, or it's got the same ones on and they've been lucky enough not to get picked up by any random checks."

"Right, well, see if you can get any CCTV for the area the car was stolen from, and contact whoever reported it."

"Yes, sir." Kent replies.

"Right then," says Chandler, "is there anything else, or does everyone know what they need to be getting on with?"

Kent's eyes flick around the room; Miles looks as if he's about to blow.

"Yes actually," the Sergeant says, "begging your pardon, boss, but why the hell did you go charging off to the Royal London?" Miles turns his steely gaze on Kent, who grimaces. Leaving Ed to relay why he'd gone had clearly been a bad idea.

"Well, err ..." Kent casts his eyes down to his shoes, it's better than trying to look at Miles when the Sergeant's got that look on his face. The one that says if he doesn't like your answer, you'll be doing the paper work and making the tea for the next month. (Not that Kent doesn't generally do that anyway.) "... Ed mentioned that all the blood types were negative, and I thought that was unusual, that another one had turned up. And then he said 'how would the killer know?' and it got me thinking ..."

"Dangerous." Mansell mutters; Kent looks up to glare at him just as the other DC turns to smirk at Riley, who shushes him.

"Anyway, it turns out that all of our victims are on the blood donor register, and gave blood at a local blood donation drive three weeks ago."

"Well it's certainly an interesting coincidence," Miles says, "but how does that help us?"

"If the killer is selecting victims with rhesus negative blood, then he must need that liver for something in particular, they'd be more rare on the black market, but it doesn't explain why he's only taking livers, and why he's only just started killing, and so obviously too. He doesn't even try to hide the bodies."

"Are you saying we should rule out the black market train of thought?" Chandler asks.

Kent takes a deep breath. He still can't make sense of all the information rattling around in his head, but he's got a gut feeling about this theory.

"I'm saying that it's even more unlikely than it was before." Kent says.

"So what do we do, contact every bloody person with negative blood who donated that day? See if anyone was acting shifty?" Miles asks, folding his arms and huffing out an exasperated breath.

Kent shrugs; he doesn't know what to do with his findings, not really. He was hoping someone else would fill in the blanks.

"I'm sorry." he says, "It was just an idea."

"Maybe the killer needs a liver himself." Mansell says from where he's sat at his desk. "Maybe that's why he got rid of the duff one this morning."

"It would explain why all the victims were young and healthy-looking, on the outside at least." adds Riley.

"They wouldn't let someone with liver disease donate blood though." Miles points out. "Besides, if our killer needed a specific blood type, and had access to the records, surely we would have only found one dead body. One bloke, one liver with the right blood type. Not a number of negative ones."

"Maybe William Fox didn't know he had liver disease." Riley says.

"Still doesn't explain why there's more than one young lad lying in the morgue." insists Miles.

Everyone turns to look at Chandler, who has remained silent so far.

"I think Miles is right." The DI says, throwing an almost apologetic glance in Kent's direction. "If our killer had access to the records then it's unlikely that he would have killed more than once. Everyone should have their tasks to be getting on with."

The rest of the team settle back into their seats, but Kent practically sinks into his. He'd been so sure that the blood donation line of inquiry would turn something up.

"Kent," Chandlers voice is quiet yet commanding, "a word in my office, please."

Kent sighs, but heaves himself out of his chair, trying to prepare himself for what he imagines will be quite the telling off. And things had been going so well. He walks into the small office and stands stiffly in front of Chandler's desk.

"Could you close the door?" the DI asks.

Kent does so, trying to ignore the eye roll that Miles throws his way. He waits patiently for the Inspector to begin.

"You shouldn't have left without clearing it with myself or Sergeant Miles." Chandler says, blue eyes meeting brown across the width of the desk.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Kent replies, not daring to say anymore for the fear that his voice will crack slightly, or something equally as embarrassing. He looks down at the desk, eyes glancing over the familiar array of items laid out meticulously in front of Chandler.

"I was worried."

Kent jerks his head up so fast that his neck muscles send a shooting pain down his spine in punishment.

"Excuse me, sir?" he says, surely he's hallucinating. It's the stress, it's getting to them all and he's finally cracked.

Chandler gives him a wry smile.

"You went by yourself, to the hospital of all places, and left Ed to tell us about it."

Kent ducks his head to hide his answering smile.

"Yeah, with hindsight it wasn't the best of plans."

"It was good theory, but Miles is right, it doesn't explain the multiple killings."

Kent nods his head in agreement.

"I know, the idea just ran away from me. It won't happen again, sir."

"Sometimes our thoughts get away from us." Chandler concedes, fiddling with the small put of Tiger Balm that sits on the desk. Kent nods again; he knows that all too well.

"I'll go and look up that stolen car report." Kent says, unsure why exactly he's still stood in Chandler's office, apart from his own desire to be close to the DI.

"Yes, right, of course." Chandler says, now straightening the rest of the items on the desk, despite them appearing to be in perfect alignment, at least to Kent's eyes. The young DC considers himself dismissed with these words, and heads out of the office. Miles beckons him over.

"Don't do that again, lad." the Sergeant says.

"Sorry, Serge." Kent replies. "It won't happen again, I'll come and check with you first next time."

"You make sure you do that. And don't leave Ed in charge of telling us anything, the first thing he blurted out when his nibs stepped in the room was 'Kent's gone to hospital, to the Royal', I thought the boss was going to go spare. Nearly gave me a heart attack and all: I'm not as young as I used to be."

Kent shook his head, trust Ed to make things sound as dramatic as possible.

"Seriously, until Buchan explained what on Earth he meant by that outburst, we thought something awful had happened." Miles tells him; the Sergeant's got a smile on his face, slightly mocking, but his eyes are serious.

"Sorry, skip." Kent says. He's more used to Miles' concern; he's borne the brunt of it ever since he became a Detective Constable. Miles had taken one at him, all youthful eagerness, and had declared that he wasn't in the habit of looking after other people's kids. He'd gone against that pretty much every day since, treating Kent as the baby of the team and teasing him for it, but helping out when anything happened. Handing Kent a tissue when he'd caught him crying in the loos after a little girl was murdered. Visiting him in hospital after his run in with the Krays. Even going as far as inviting him round for tea with Judy and the boys when he thought Kent was looking a bit thin and in need of a good meal.

Chandler's concern however, whilst not entirely new (the DI had looked worried when Kent got striped after all, and cared for the team in his own way) was a little disconcerting, probably because Kent was unsure how to respond of it.

"You'd best be getting on with that report." Miles says.

"Yes, Sergeant." is Kent's quick reply, he doesn't like the way Miles is looking at him, like he can read all the thoughts that are going on in Kent's head and he's having a bit of a laugh about them.

Kent returns to his desk, rifling through his notes to find the name and number of the individual he needs.

Five minutes later he hasn't really found out anything that wasn't already in with the report. The vehicle had been stolen from near the owner's home, and no he hadn't seen anyone acting suspiciously. He had no idea who'd want to steal his car. Kent sighs, and get's up to deliver his finding and a copy of the police report to Miles.

On his way back to his desk he happens to catch Mansell's eye. The older detective is looking at him like he's completely lost his marbles. Kent knows he can expect a call from Erica tonight. He rolls his eyes in Mansell's general direction and continues back to his desk, sitting heavily in his chair and wondering if they're ever going to catch this killer.

* * *

It's five minutes before the end of shift when Ed enters the incidence room. Everyone looks up but Buchan ignores his audience and makes a beeline for Kent.

"Did you find anything?" the archivist asks, in what he probably believes is a quiet tone of voice. (It's more like a bloody stage whisper.) Kent looks up and shakes his head.

"No Ed, I'm afraid our idea was a bust."

"Really?" The other man exclaims, "Why?"

"Too many things don't match up. For example if the killer knows the victims blood types, and needs the liver for someone in particular, why wouldn't he just take one liver, with the exact blood type that he needs."

"Hmm, good point, good point." Ed murmurs in agreement. "Ah well, it was a good idea." The archivist offers Kent a smile that's a little bit to jolly for the incidence room at the end of a long day. Kent returns it with a slightly weaker one of his own. "Did you find any link at all?" Ed asks.

"All the victims gave blood at the same site on the same day." Kent says, keeping his voice low, he doesn't want to have to hash out the idea with the rest of the team all over again.

"That is interesting." Ed says, "Maybe the killer needs more than one liver, or maybe the first ones were no good."

"I think we'd have heard about it if someone in the hospital kept having multiple failed transplants." Kent replies, a slight scoff in his voice.

"Ah, but maybe, ..." Ed says in a voice that implies a forthcoming anecdote, "... maybe our killer isn't using them on someone that's alive, perhaps they, like in the story of Dr. Frankenstein, are trying to bring someone back to life."

"So what, the killer's trying to bring someone back to life by stuffing them with other people's livers?" Miles calls from across the incidence room.

Kent hangs his head slightly, he should have known everyone would be listening in on the conversation, he can only hope that Chandler hasn't come out of his office.

Ed turns towards the new voice,

"It's a possibility." he says. "As I mentioned earlier in the week, the cases of 'muti' murders in southern Africa, using organs for black magic that are all the more potent for the fact that the victim was alive when they were removed."

"Oh, God, not that witchcraft stuff again." Miles says, rolling his eyes. "We've all had enough of that nonsense."

Expect they haven't, have they? Kent knows that Miles and Ed believe that Louise Iver is something possible unexplainable by normal means, and they never did work out who was pranking Mansell on the phones. (And let's not forget, Kent has his own demons, the one that stares at him from his reflection every now and then.) The fact is they've all seen things that are bordering on what others would call the supernatural.

"I think it would be worth it for young Kent to look at people who would have had access to those donation records, maybe someone working there on the day, and see if there have been any deaths in their families." Ed suggests.

Miles just shakes his head; Kent, Mansell, and Riley's eyes are flicking back and forth between the two men as if they're watching a tennis match.

"That would take ages." The Sergeant says. "We're much better off trying to locate the car that Mansell spotted on CCTV. There's no need to go on a wild goose case when you're suggestion is that some idiot is conducting black magic!"

"I would wager," begins Ed, starting to look a little irate, "that there's been a disturbance in a graveyard. If my theory is correct, our killer would have to steal back a body. That would be much quicker to look up."

Miles folds his arms and sighs heavily.

"Fine." the DS says, with the air of someone humouring a small child. "Kent, search for any reports of local grave robbings, or disturbances in graveyards."

Kent quickly turns to his ailing computer, and searches for the required information; the room seems to hold its' breath while everyone waits for the search to finish.

It feels like there should be a fanfare, or a small 'ping', or at least something to signal when the search is complete, but no, Kent just watches the screen until the records appear in front of him. He sighs.

"There's been a reported disturbance."

Ed looks exceptionally smug for someone who's just been told that the killer they're chasing not only murders people and steals their livers, but also nicks bodies out of the ground.

"Bloody hell." Miles on the other hand, looks anything but smug. If smug has an opposite, it's written all over Miles' face. "Is there a name?" the Sergeant asks.

"Yeah." Kent says, peering at the report. "Owen Fields."

"Well then, we'd best go and have a word with Mr. Field's family." says Miles.

Kent watches as the Sergeant gets up and makes his way over to knock on Chandler's office door.

"Boss," Miles says as he makes his way into the small office, "Kent and Buchan's wild goose chase may have turned something up after all."

"What do you mean?" Chandler asks as he enters the incidence room.

"I thought that our killer might be using the livers for some kind of black magic, Joe, as I suggested earlier in the week." Ed says, stepping closer to the DI.

"Ed thinks that someone's playing Dr. Frankenstein, trying to replace a liver with someone else's." Miles clarifies, before Ed can make the explanation into something long-winded that will take up 20 minutes.

"It's end of shift, Skip." says Mansell, him and Riley have stood up and approached the rest of the team, who are gathered around Kent's desk.

Everyone looks towards Chandler.

"Miles and I will go and have a look." the DI says. "There's no point in everyone coming, we'll call you back in if we get a lead."

Riley breathes a small sigh of relief, and Mansell looks pleased.

Kent however, is not so eager to leave.

"Kent should come too, boss." Miles says, "It was his idea after all."

Chandler glances over to Kent, who's trying not to look too hopeful.

"Very well." Chandler says walking back into his office.

"Right then. Kent with us, Riley, Mansell, clear off home for a bit but keep an ear out for your phones, we'll let you know if anything turns up." Miles dismisses the team with a wave of his hand. "Buchan, you can clear off an' all."

Ed huffs in response to this, before offering Kent a brief smile, and exiting the room.

* * *

The weather is gloriously sunny when Kent exits the building, following Chandler and Miles. Not the kind of weather for murders at all really, or it wouldn't be in a perfect world. Then again in a perfect world there wouldn't be any murders, so maybe it's a moot point.

"There's no point us all going in separate cars." Chandler says as they reach the car park. "We can take mine."

Miles shoots Kent an undecipherable look as they follow the DI towards his Range Rover.

"You go up front Kent," the Sergeant says as they approach the 4 by 4, "you've got the address after all."

All three of them know that this isn't an actual reason for Kent to sit up front – he could have read the address just as easily from the back seat – but everyone accepts it none-the-less; although Kent does narrow his eyes slightly at the Sergeant as they get into the car. (It's returned with a look of carefully crafted ignorance.)

The drive to the Fields' house is uncomfortably silent, apart from the beginning when Kent reads the address to Chandler so that the DI can input it into the SatNav.

When they reach their destination, they climb out of the vehicle and make their way to the front door of number 82. Kent can hear muffled talking, and maybe the sound of a television, and then footsteps as someone approaches the door. When opened, it reveals a man of around 40.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"I'm DI Chandler with the Whitechapel Police, are you Mr. Fields?

"Yes." the man replies, remaining in the doorway of the house.

"I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions about your son?"

The man pales considerably.

"Have you found him?" he asks breathlessly.

"Found who?" Chandler asks, sharing a bemused look with Miles.

"Eric, have you found him, is he safe?"

"We were actually here to talk about your son Owen and the disturbance that occurred at his grave site last week." the DI says. "Do you mean to tell me that you have another son, who is missing?"

The search for the Fields had turned up one surviving son, and a daughter, the latter of which no longer lived with her parents.

"Yes, he's been missing for about a week now, Anne and I thought he'd gone to stay with friends for a bit, cool off after the funeral, but we haven't heard anything from him."

"May we come in?" Chandler asks.

"Of course, sorry, sorry." Mr Fields moves back from the doorway and gestures for them to come into the hallway.

Kent's eyes take in the space; the cleanliness of the paintwork, the pictures hanging on the wall. The stacks of what he assumes are cards from those sorry for the Fields' loss balanced on a small table.

Mr Fields leads them into a sitting room, and motions for them to sit.

"My wife's just in the kitchen." the man says. "I'll just go and let her know you're here, would you like any tea?"

"No thanks, we're fine." Miles answers for all of them. Mr Fields nods and disappears from view.

"It's a bit strange that they haven't reported their son missing don't you think?" whispers Chandler.

"Not if the lad said he was going to stay with friends." answers Miles.

They wait for a minute or so, and finally Mr. Fields reappears, wife in tow.

"Hello Mrs Fields. We're just here to ask a couple of questions about Owen if that's alright." Miles says, granting the couple one of his selective smiles, the kind crafted to put whoever he's questioning at ease without giving anything else away.

"About Owen?" Mrs Fields seems confused, and with good reason, considering the poor boy is dead.

"Yes, it's about the disturbance at his grave." Chandler says. "Do you know anyone who might have a grudge against you, or who had one against Owen?"

"No, no, everyone, ... everyone adored Owen." Mrs Fields says, choking slightly on the words.

Kent watches the tears well up in her eyes and wishes they'd never come.

"What did Owen die from?" Chandler asks, leaning forward to capture Mrs Fields with his earnest gaze. It's Mr Fields who answers him.

"Liver failure. He was only 25 but he had something wrong with his liver, we didn't have time to wait for a transplant or anything, he went into hospital, and a week later, his liver gave out, and his other organs started shutting down. Too many toxins in the body the doctors said. Couldn't do anything about it." The man's voice is quiet, hushed by grief.

"Did you say Eric went missing after the funeral?" Miles asks after a moment.

"Yes, he said he was going to stay with friends, but we haven't heard anything from him. We want to give him his space, but if anything happened to him ..." Mr Fields trails off, the implications of his words hanging heavy in the air.

"Did Eric work for the NHS blood donation team in any capacity?" Kent questions, breaking the silence.

"Yes, he does, loves volunteering does our Eric, always happy to help." Mr Fields replies, "Why?"

Kent, Miles, and Chandler share significant looks.

"Mr Fields," Miles begins, sounding uncertain of how best to phrase what he wants to say. "We're currently investigating a string of murders."

"That's why I was so concerned about Eric when you turned up, I thought you were going to tell me, tell us ..." Mr Fields doesn't finish.

"No, no, we haven't found your son." Chandler assures them, before letting Miles continue.

"It's a long shot, but we were wondering if Owens' death was linked to these murders." says Miles.

"But how? Owens' death wasn't a murder, no one wanted to hurt him." Mrs Fields has re-entered the conversation and is now on her feet.

"We believe Eric might be involved somehow in the killings. Our findings suggest that the killer had access to knowledge about the victims, knowledge about their blood type, they all gave blood at a recent local donation session." Miles look up at the Fields, trying to glean information from their faces.

"Eric?" Mr Fields says, bewildered. "Why would Eric have anything to do with these killings?"

"It's just one line of questioning we're pursuing." Chandler says, glancing at Kent and Miles for support; grief can make people do terrible things. That's why they're here. "We just want to know where Eric is, so we can rule it out."

"I'm afraid we can't help you." Mrs Fields voice has gone stone cold, and there's a blank look frozen on her face. "Let me show you out."

They leave Mr Fields sat in the living room; the man seems to have turned to stone.

Stepping out of the door Kent realises that the rest of London is still light and sunny, compared to the cold of the Fields' home, bereft of its children.

"Well that was a bust." Miles says with a huff. "If we can't find anything else connecting this case to Eric Fields, some solid evidence, then I'm afraid we're going to have to drop it." The Sergeant looks over at Kent. "Sorry lad, but we've just not got enough to go on. There are a lot of coincidences, but we can't convict a man based on those, let alone when we don't even know where the bloke is."

Kent nods. The ride back to the station is as silent as the one away from it was. He splits off from Miles and Chandler and heads over to his moped. He tries not to think about anything on the drive home.

* * *

Ellie and David take one look at him when he gets in and immediately put the kettle on. They know better than to ask what exactly has caused him to look like a seagull's taken a shit on him and then he's watched someone run over a kitten, but the cup of tea and the hug he gets from Ellie are much appreciated.

His phone buzzes with the arrival of a text, but it turns out to be Mansell asking about how the interview went so he ignores it and goes back to staring into the murky brown liquid in his mug.

He's just about to get up and wash the cup out in the sink when his phone rings. He glances at the screen; it's Erica.

"Hello." he says, after he's accepted the call.

"Don't you hello me, Emerson Kent." replies the rather irate sounding voice of his sister. "Mansell says that you interrupted your boss today and ended up in an argument, what on Earth have you been up to?"

Kent can hear the concern that bleeds into Erica's words despite her demand.

"If Mansell has told you the whole story why do you need to get it off me?" he asks wearily, placing his head in his hand.

"It's just not like you that's all, I'm worried about you Em, you never come and see me anymore."

Kent sighs, it's true, ever since the incident where he'd tried to break her and Finley up he'd been avoiding his twin sister. They were always as thick as thieves and now he's driven a wedge between them and he doesn't know how to remove it.

"Sorry, Eri." he says, reverting to her childhood nickname.

"Stop bloody apologising for everything, just come and see me, alright?"

"I will do, as soon as this case is finished I'll take you out dinner. We can go to that little Indian place you like." he promises.

"That's a start." Erica says, but there's a hint of a laugh in her voice now so he knows he's said the right thing. "You look after yourself yeah? And call me once in a while; I'm sick of having to ask Mansell how you are."

"I'm sick of it too!" Mansell's voice registers on the line. Kent rolls his eyes.

"Alright, alright. I will do."

"Make sure you do. Love you, Em."

"You too."

Kent hangs up and rests the phone on the kitchen counter. He turns the tap on and places his mug under it. The phone rings again. He picks it up without even glancing at the screen.

"Erica, you called me less than a minute ago, I'm fine."

"Kent?"

The voice on the phone is definitely not his sister's.

"Oh. Hello, sir. Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

"I gathered that."

"Has there been another killing?" Kent asks, placing a hand on his eyelids and gently massaging his tired eyes.

"No, no, nothing like that." Chandler replies. Kent wonders what the DI could be calling for.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

"Yes everything is fine."

Kent answers with a prolonged silence, unsure of what to say next.

"I just wanted to check how you were." Chandler finally says. "It's been a difficult week for all of us."

That may be the case but Kent knows for a fact that the DI isn't calling the rest of the team up to ask how they are. (At least he hopes not.)

"I'm fine, sir. Thank you."

There's another pause.

"You're idea showed promise, I'm sorry that it didn't turn out well." Chandler sounds sincere. After all if Kent's idea had turned out to be correct, or had at least led them to another line of enquiry they might be closer to catching their killer.

"That's alright, sir, it's not your fault." Kent replies. "Thank you for saying so anyway." he adds, not wanting to come across as ungrateful for Chandler's call. There's still not the ease between them that there had been the evening before (and doesn't that seem a world away) but it's better than the tension that was present at the station.

He's just about to say goodbye and end the call but Chandler stops him.

"I really was worried about you today. I couldn't bear -, I wouldn't want to see you get hurt again."

Kent's face flushes red, he's glad that there's no one there to witness it.

"Thank you, sir."

There's a sigh on the other end of the line.

"I really wish you weren't so insistent on calling me 'sir' outside of work."

"Well what can I call you then?" Kent asks, a small smile playing around his lips.

"I'd like it if you could call me Joe, when we're not in work."

"Well Joe, perhaps you should call me Emerson, or even Em, if you like." Kent offers.

"Emerson." Chandler sounds as if he's testing how the word fits in his mouth, careful and curious. A shudder runs down Kent's spine.

"You should try and get some rest, sir, sorry, sorry, Joe." The word doesn't seem to fit quite right just yet, maybe Kent will have to call Chandler 'Joe' to his face before it really does.

"Yes, I will. You should too."

"I will. Thanks for calling me."

"Goodnight, Emerson."

"Night, Joe."

Kent waits for the DI to hang up before he puts the phone down. He smiles to himself as he washes the mug and heads off to watch telly in a much better mood than he had been just a couple of hours earlier.

* * *

 **As you can probably tell this story absolutely ran away with me in this chapter. I'm going to try and rein it back in a bit in my next update, in which there will be some progression on the Chandler/Kent front. It should be up no later than the 22** **nd** **of July, earlier if I can help it!**


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